


A Truck-load of Sea Salt

by Dusty_Skyes



Series: Taken With: [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Double Anal Penetration, Forget my hand slipping my whole body slipped and fell onto the keyboard, Garrus Nihlus and Cyril are sarcastic asses, Garrus makes Spectre and one-ups his father, I blame Kuraiummei for this glorious monster, I didn't mean for this to happen, M/M, No Reaper AU, No Saren you can't space them, Threesomes, turians and spectres oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Skyes/pseuds/Dusty_Skyes
Summary: Kryik has always wanted to be sandwiched by two gorgeous torins. It's a good thing he has two Vakarian willing to jump him. Meanwhile, Saren denies what he wants and then gets jealous.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/gifts).



> This is based upon a prompt that [Kuraiummei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei) gave me. I blame them for this glorious monster and you should too.

            Halfway through a snipe-session that is laughably easy, Garrus spots their commanding officer watching them carefully, speaking quietly to someone on the other end of the connection on his omni-tool. His eyes narrow just slightly, a hand sliding down to nudge the nearly identical _torin_ sniping the targets beside him. _Cyril_ , his subvocals vibrate, just loud enough for his Clan member to hear, and Garrus mentally thanks the spirits for the fact that the two of them are currently surrounded by Salarians.

            Gold eyes glance at him, careful and wary, and then flicker away. _What_? Cyril asks, shifting the barrel of his Weaver—a gift from Garrus two years ago—to nail a target out in the field that someone else had failed miserably at hitting.

            Further down the line, someone curses softly and attempts to steal one of the gray-plated _torin_ 's targets. They fail horribly, missing by a mile, and Cyril huffs a laugh as he easily removes the target from play. Garrus tilts his head in the direction of their commanding officer. _He's talking to someone about us. Keeps looking in our direction._

            Cyril's gaze slides sideways, molten gold narrowing as he causally snipes another target and eyes the way they're being glanced at. _You're right. Not very subtle, though._

            Garrus nods just a little. _Very obvious. Wonder why._ Cyril rolls his gaze upwards and slides a hand along Garrus' inner arm.

            _Does it matter?_ he asks. _I highly doubt it's anything major and I want to have a little_ fun _tonight._

A purr rumbles deep in Garrus' throat, just barely loud enough for his lover to hear. _I'm looking forward to that_. He settles down, shoves down the feelings of lust and quickly takes out three targets in quick succession. Beside him, Cyril smirks, his mandibles fluttering with glee at the implied challenge.

            _Oh, it's on. Winner tops._  

            _Deal._

            Not even two days later, their classes are invaded by a carmine-plated Turian dressed neatly in the well known red and black Spectre armor. “Holy _shit_ ,” Cyril hisses quietly, not even pausing in cleaning his Weaver, “that's Spectre Arterius' protege. I think his name's Nihlus Kryik. What the hell is he doing _here_? In a basic sniping class?”

            “I don't know,” Garrus returns just as soft gaze flicking over and then back again, “but there is no way I'm going to fuck up in front of him. Spectre or not, _patrem_ would kill me if I disgraced our name.” He can see the other cadets panicking; some internal, most external, and rolls his eyes. With a faint click, he snaps the scope back onto his Widow—a gift from Cyril on his last begetting day—and settles down into position. The command is given and his mandibles flutter just slightly, shifting outwards in a faint smirk as he takes out three targets in a row.

            There's a faint huff of breath as Cyril rolls his eyes and begins sniping, shooting just as many as Garrus does. They're both at the top of the class for a reason, often booting the other out of the number one spot.

**oOo**

            Nihlus is bored.

            Nihlus is very bored.

            Nihlus is bored out of his _mind._

            Nihlus is bored to the point he's actually considering sneaking into Saren's bed again, just to rile the other _torin_ up with a heavy dose of _reverie_ before fleeing the ship in an attempt to get his mentor to play with him. Somewhat suicidal, yes, but also a lot of fun. He huffs a breath and eyes the boot camp information pulled up on his omni-tool, mentally wondering just how pissed Saren would be if he brought back a protege of his own; it would make the Council shut up about him passing on his own skills.

            A protege of his own.... A gleam appears in the _torin's_ eyes and his mandibles splay outwards in an evil smirk. Saren's definitely going to regret abandoning him to the Council's mercy two missions back.

            And, being the distinguished Spectre that he is, Nihlus does not cackle evilly as he exits his ship and heads towards the building.

            To be honest, Nihlus' not expecting much, maybe someone who's a decent long-range shot. Both him and Saren like to get up-close and personal when fighting, and he's getting a bit tired of having to put up with shitty snipers. A Spectre that's also an amazing sniper? Saren might actually kiss him for that gift.

            Brown mandibles flutter slightly and Nihlus bites his tongue in an attempt to keep his plates from spreading. Now is not the time to become interested; not when he has a bunch of recruits to look over. With a huff, he activates his omni-tool and accesses when the next sniper class is, pausing when he realizes that he's here in time to catch the entire thing from start to finish. That's....perfect, actually. A sly smile slides across his face and he saunters down the hall, everyone else immediately getting out of the way the moment they recognize his armor.

            The sniping class is just beginning when he steps inside, sharp green eyes noting the way a chunk of the students freeze at the sight of him. _'Phhft. Newbies,'_ he thinks, conveniently ignoring the way he'd paused when first meeting Saren, and takes a more careful look at those who hadn't. Two of them are in a corner, and for a moment Nihlus wonders if he's found identical Turian twins. One of them is cleaning their sniper rifle, an Orb Weaver if he's not mistaken, while the other is snapping a scope onto a Black Widow. Then he realizes that they're talking about him, if the way their gazes flicker over in his direction are any indication, and feels a burst of pride at their rather impressive level of nonchalance.

            They don't even look impressed by the visual lack of weapons, and Nihlus spots both of them eyeing where one of his hidden knives are.

            Good looking _and_ competent. What a bonus. He's actually rather impressed.

            Then, once all the recruits have settled into a line, the command is given and the two—twins? He's really going to have to find out—immediately fire, each of them nailing targets without pause. They're not even glancing over at him, far more interested in outdoing the other. He can see them smirking at each other, mandibles fluttering, even going as far as occasionally stealing kills from each other and their far less skilled classmates.

            Both are insanely good.

            Nihlus stares at them for a while, then whirls on their commanding officer, who winces and cringes back. Good. “You,” he hisses. “Why haven't those two been recruited already by Spectre?”

            “I..” the Salarian squeaks, “I'm under orders from Senator Vakarian to not let them go?!”

            “Well,” Nihlus says, cursing loudly in his head at the damn Senator's meddling, and his mandibles are splayed in a fearsome Saren Arterius™ snarl, “we'll see about that.” He begins typing rapidly on his omni-tool, subvocals vibrating in full out irritation, mixed with a healthy dose of fury.

_OPEN CHAT: Y, N: Y_  
DESIGNATION: The Daedalus  
**SYSTEM SERVER: pyromanic** has signed in  
**pyromanic:** SAREN  
**SYSTEM SERVER: Saren** has signed in  
**Saren:** Yes?  
**pyromanic:** im at the boot camp on citadel. theres some awesome snipers here,  
imma gonna take a protege, but senator vakarian is being nosy. help.  
**Saren:** Nosy? How so?  
<Two minutes>  
**Saren:** Never mind. I see. Overwriting command..... done. Have fun.  
**pyromanic:** thanks saren! *kisses*  
**SYSTEM SERVER: pyromanic** has signed out  
<One minute>  
**Saren:** Wait, take a protege?!?! NIHLUS, GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!

            With a smirk on his face at Saren's last comment, Nihlus turns back to the Salarian and purrs, “Look again and tell me I can't take those two,” and presses a knife against the bastard's middle.

            The Salarian glances down and winces. “Yes, Spectre Kryik.” Nihlus steps back, squirreling the knife away before any of the recruits can see and stretches out. “Vakarian!” the Salarian barks.

            “Sir?” the one with the Weaver asks almost lazily.

            “Do you need something, Sir?” the _torin_ with the Widow adds slowly. His subvocals are buzzing with curiosity, muted but still there. He rolls his neck, lazily popping it and showing off the muscles as he stretches, and Nihlus twitches when his plates shift. Again. Twins. He's ninety nine percent sure that they're twins. Holy _fuck_.

            _'Hot damn,'_ he thinks.

            With a huff of laughter, the Salarian jerks a thumb towards Nihlus. “You two will be going with Spectre Kryik. He's interested in taking a protege and both of you caught his eye. Good luck.”

            Weaver's eyes widen, the black pupil dilating and covering his golden iris. _Holy_ shit.

            Widow's brow-plates touch the top of his forehead and then he grins widely. _I'll say._ _This is going to be awesome._

**oOo**

            Garrus grins widely as he and Cyril gleefully follow Spectre Kryik to his ship. “I can't believe this,” he hisses to his lover, making sure that the carmine-plated _torin_ can't hear him, “we're going to be tested to become _Spectres_.

            Cyril, however, is frowning. “Spectres only take on one protege at a time, Garrus. One of us isn't going to be chosen.”

            His lover turns away. “I know,” Garrus says weakly, icy eyes burning holes in the ground. “I've been trying to not think about that.”

            In front of them, Spectre Kryik is walking quickly, making a beeline towards his own ship. Garrus raises a single brow-plate when they reach it. It's pretty high-tech, but there's subtle clues that Kryik is not someone who likes to deal with coding. Cyril huffs, eyeing his lover carefully. “Ask before you lunge at the coding.”

            “Mmm,” his almost-twin says, ice blue eyes _gleaming_ with excitement. “Sure.”

            Cyril rolls his eyes up towards the sky and half considers the thought that Kryik might regret this. Garrus is perfect in control, except when code rolls about. Then he's a nightmare, exploring anything and everything he can get his hands on. He looks over the nice ship and winces.

            Yeah, Kryik may or may not regret this by the time the end of the day rolls in, if not sooner. Great. Looks like it's up to him to keep his lover in line.

**oOo**

            Nihlus flounces up the ramp to his ship and beckons the two _torin_ s inside, leading them to the CIC. He taps a few keys and turns around, watching the two of them quietly. Weaver is looking around carefully and keeping a firm grip on Widow's arm, who seems to be....vibrating? Okay....that's not odd at all. He just barely hear their subvocals, muted and quiet as they are, and raises a brow-plate at Weaver's quietly hissed, _Don't you fucking dare_.

            “Right,” he says with a grand gesture. “My name is Spectre Nihlus Kryik, but you may call me Nihlus. This is my ship, the Widmanstat. Occasionally, my mentor will come around. If you can't handle being in the same room as Saren Arterius, then you can walk out that door right now.”

            Weaver rolls his eyes. “We can handle Arterius.” He then pauses and nudges Widow. “Pay attention, you idiot.” No answer and he sighs loudly and smacks the other _torin_ upside the head.

            It's only now that they're standing in front of him that Nihlus realizes just how tall they actually are. He's pretty damn tall for their species; himself standing neatly at seven feet even, but both of them easily have six or more inches on him.

            Saren is _tiny_ compared to them, more than a foot and a half shorter. Their _Familia Notas_ are blue, wrapping around their eyes and drifting down onto matching gray mandibles. In fact, the only real difference he can see is their eyes. Widow's are icy blue, the color of icebergs in the sea. Weaver has bright gold eyes, shining and shimmering like treasure. Nihlus swallows, stuffs his attraction into a box before his subvocals can betray him, and wonders if he's going about this the right way. “Now, I know you're both Vakarian, but I'm going to need individual names.”

            Widow focuses again and then eyes him with disbelief. “You mean you don't already know them?”

            “I prefer having people tell me.”

            Weaver nods like it makes sense and says, “Cyril Vakarian.”

            “Garrus Vakarian,” Widow says with a purr. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

            Nihlus is ninety-nine percent sure that he's screwed.

**oOo**

            Nihlus only finds out about Garrus' extreme interest in coding when he steps into the CIC early the next morning. It's probably five in the morning—damn Saren's ability to live on zero sleep, along with his tendency to makes others wake up with him—and he realizes that his two newbies are already up and probably have been for a while. That's a bit surprising. He was expecting to have to get them up; the two _torin_ grumbling the entire way. Nihlus fetches a cup of _kava_ and eyes them as he sips at it.. Cyril is cleaning both sniper rifles, lovingly making sure that everything is as neat as possible. Garrus is.... Garrus is elbow deep in the Widmanstat's code, and seems to be easily understanding Saren's work. Nihlus gapes for a second, eye wide, watching as he _upgrades_ Saren's coding with an ease that borders on insane. “What the _hell_?” he asks weakly, watching with huge eyes as the other upgrades the firing rate and the shields, somehow running three separate simulations at the same time.

            Garrus twitches, his mandibles splaying outwards in a sort of guilty look. Cyril frowns. “Garrus,” he begins dangerously, “you promised you'd ask _before_ you went digging through the code.”

            “I saw a way to upgrade both the fire rate and the shielding without transferring any power from the cannons,” Garrus defends weakly and the Spectre barely keeps his jaw attached.

            “Spirits,” he breathes, because that's _amazing_ , and makes a beeline over to stand by Garrus. “How'd you do that? No wait, I won't understand anything you say. Saren's gonna freak if my coding is better than his. I can't wait!” Nihlus cackles gleefully, subvocals broadcasting nothing but pure delight.

            “You're not upset?” Garrus asks slowly, almost like he can't believe what he's hearing. Cyril raises a single brow-plate, an amused expression crossing his face.

            Nihlus grins widely. “Nope! I can't understand a lick of code. But I'm not worried about you two sabotaging me, seeing as I'm your method of becoming a Spectre. And, assuming you're as good as Saren, my coding might just be better than my mentor's!” _He's going to freak, and it's going to be glorious._

            Cyril smiles. “That's good. I can code, too, but nowhere near as well as Trickshot can. I'm much better at stealth and espionage.” He then turns golden eyes towards Garrus, who winces just slightly. “I don't care if you have full permission, you're still going to inform Spectre Kryik of any changes you're going to make, preferably _before_ you make them. Is that understood?”

            “Of course, Shadow,” Garrus agrees, eyes already glued back to the scrolling code. Nihlus, feeling rather generous, fetches him a cup of _kava_ , and sets it down beside the white-gray Turian.

            He's already imagining Saren's reaction to his suddenly upgraded coding. It's going to be glorious.

**oOo**

            Two days later, Nihlus takes them on their first mission. It's a rather short one, mostly involving the three of them clearing out a mercenary-infested factory. That doesn't make it easy, though, as heavy fog and mist make sniping the place clean almost impossible. Garrus spits several curses underneath his breath—Nihlus looks vaguely amused, those curses would have definitely gotten a reprimand from Saren—and sets about loading a set of pistols, muttering furiously the entire way.

            Cyril sighs softly, the vibration rumbling low in his chest. Nihlus tries to pretend that sound doesn't do horrible things to his libido, and marches forward, practically vanishing into the shadows. “Here's your test,” he says, almost gleefully. “Don't be seen.” Then he's gone, and the two watch him crawl silent and spider-like up a wall before slipping through a window that someone had stupidly left open. Seconds later, there's a crunching noise.

            “Motherfucker,” Garrus says weakly, and Cyril really can't find it in him to complain. 

            “Stop swearing and get moving,” he hisses softly over his shoulder as he heads for the nearest entrance, snapping the necks of the guards the moment he gets into range. Garrus blinks, snaps a silencer onto each of his pistols and begins prowling the grounds. His range is limited without a scope, and he instead settles for slinking up behind the guards and nailing them in the head, hiding their bodies before they can be found.

            There's no way he's going to be the reason why their presence is discovered. If anything, both he and Cyril are going to make sure that the one who reveals their presence is Kryik. A glance around the corner has Garrus quickly muffling his glee. Three guards, all watching a doorway, and all lined up neatly. The setup couldn't have been more perfect even if he had _tried_.

            Garrus breathes in, slips one pistol around the corner, waits half a heartbeat, and pulls the trigger three times in quick succession. The three guards slump quietly over each other and the _torin_ smirks and sneaks in through the entrance they had been guarding.

            By the time the three of them have completely cleared out the facility, Garrus is extremely stressed and definitely in need of a long nap. Cyril seems to be the same, though the _torin_ is calmly eyeing his blood-spattered armor with mild disgust. Kryik flounces over to them once on the ship, a wide grin on his mandibles. “Well done,” he says. “No one saw you except for me. Impressive shot, Garrus.”

            “Which one?” Garrus asks dryly as the ship takes off, because he's made several impressive shots today, including one where he ricocheted the bullet off of a spirits-be-damned metal wall and into an Asari's skull.

            Kryik pauses and blinks at him, his mandibles spreading in what can only be curiosity. “I saw the three in a row at that doorway.”

            Cyril snorts. “That's nothing. I watched him bounce a bullet off of a metal wall, sinking it into the forehead of an Asari.”

            A brow-plate rises up slowly. “Really?”

            “Really,” Garrus says flatly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need a nap.”

            Garrus does get his nap, but it takes a while. Cyril slinks into his room just as he steps out of the shower, and throws himself onto Garrus' bed after locking the door, gleefully eyeing the towel wrapped around his lover's waist. “You look wonderful,” Cyril says with a purr.

            “I know,” Garrus returns lazily, dropping the towel to the floor and sauntering over to the bed. He settles onto it, pulling Cyril into his lap and nuzzling their foreheads together. His lover lets out a subvocal purr and slides his tongue into Garrus' mouth, mapping it out and dosing them both to the spurs with _reverie_.

            With a low rumble, Garrus pulls back and shifts so he can nuzzle the underside of Cyril's crest, nipping gently and laving the site with his tongue until the _torin_ is little more than a bundle of oversensitive nerves. Cyril purrs softly and leans back into his touch, his plates sliding open the final few centimeters needed. Garrus catches the golden-eyed _torin_ 's cock in his hand and gives it a rough tug, shifting back so he can seal their mouths together.

            The dose of _reverie_ pulls them higher. Cyril whines, pulls away, and straddles him, sinking down onto his cock with a sigh of pleasure. Garrus rumbles a purr and leans back, watching through hooded eyes as his nearly identical lover begins moving, muscled thighs flexing as he bounces up and down.

            They're not related, not directly at least—Garrus is certain that they're eight, nine, even ten times removed—but they're so identical looking that most people think they are.

            Garrus is not ashamed to admit that they have used their identicalness to their own advantage when on missions before.

**oOo**

            Nihlus should not be watching this.

            Nihlus definitely should not be watching this.

            It was an accident, he _swears_.

            He'd been in the CIC, reluctantly writing up a report on their latest mission for both BB and Saren, when he'd spotted movement on one of the cameras out of the corner of his eyes. Not thinking, because if he had been, he wouldn't have done anything, Nihlus clicks on the video to enlarge it and promptly chokes on his drink.

            It's the Vakarian twins all right, and they're in the middle of one of the best-looking fucks Nihlus has seen in quite a while. Cyril is riding Garrus like his life _depends_ on it, muscles shifting as he bounces up and down in the sniper's lap. It's mesmerizing and Nihlus finds himself shoving the reports away, leaning back in his seat and yanking open his pants, plates sliding open within seconds.

            He takes himself in hand, stroking roughly for a moment, then pausing just long enough to kick his pants off entirely. With a low purr rumbling in his throat, Nihlus shoves the fingers of one hand into his mouth and starts sucking, lathing them with saliva in time with his strokes. When they're sufficiently covered, he presses them against his opening and slides one in, finger-fucking himself almost desperately, even as his eyes are glued to the screen.

            Nihlus deeply wishes he could join them. He's always wanted to be in a threesome. And being fucked senseless by two gorgeous, nearly identical _torins_ is not a bad way to spend an evening. He shoves in the second finger, gasping at the slight burn. The stretch is fantastic.

            The only reason he has any level of self-control is because the sound isn't on. Nihlus eyes the button controlling that aspect and barely manages to keep himself from hitting it. Then Cyril throwing his head back in an obviously orgasmic shriek attracts his attention and the Spectre finds himself almost drooling as he shamelessly ogles their bodies.

            Nihlus peaks with a choked off whine, his body clenching tightly around the digits shoved inside of him. He just barely manages to keep stroking himself through his orgasm, spilling rope after rope of sticky seed across his stomach. The Spectre slumps in the CIC, breath heavy and heartbeat racing, and leans his head back in the chair with a groan.

            This is going to be a very, very long trip.

**oOo**

            Three missions and many nightly, gratuitous rounds of sex later, even Cyril isn't sure as to what the Spectre is up to. “Shouldn't he have picked one of us already?” Garrus asks quietly as he finishes cleaning their sniper rifles before putting them away.

            Cyril shrugs, tilting one shoulder upwards, and continues chopping vegetables. The golden-eyed _torin_ had _immediately_ taken over the cooking the moment he had managed to sink his talons into it, and now ruled the kitchen with an iron spoon. Spectre Nihlus had _attempted_ to cook, somehow managing to set the oven on fire when it wasn't even on in the first place, and was now permanently banned from the room. Garrus spends several hours laughing at the sulking Spectre.

            And, if Cyril isn't making something to eat, Garrus is, as both turned out to be fantastic cooks. Nihlus sulks a little in the corner as he watches them move about the small area with a grace that comes from practice. A fantastic smell is already filling the room and he pouts even more. He can't even boil water without burning the pot that it's in. It's just not fair, really; he's been good, can't he not be tempted by wonderful things almost everywhere he goes?

            Then Saren storms onto the ship and Nihlus twitches at the thundercloud on his mentor's face. He's been avoiding the other, carefully ignoring all calls that weren't of the utmost importance. “You,” Saren growls.

            “Yeeeeeesssss?” Nihlus drawls, choking back his subvocal apology and swallowing the barrel of fear in his throat. A pissy Saren is a very scary Saren.

            “You've been avoiding me. _Explain._ ”

            “I haven't been avoiding you! I've just, um, been busy! That's right! I've been busy!”

            Saren's eyes narrow slowly until they're nothing more than thin pin-pricks of cybernetic blue in a black background. “Busy with what?” he hisses.

            “You must be Arterius,” Garrus drawls from the door, and Nihlus thanks the spirits for the _torin's_ wonderful timing. “It's interesting to meet you.”

            “Interesting?” Saren echoes warily, but he's not aiming death glares at Nihlus anymore.

            “Yes. I thought you'd be taller.” Nihlus winces, almost blanching at the murderous rage that crosses over his mentor's face.

           “ _Excuse me_?” Saren seethes, his mandibles spreading dangerously as a hand slides towards the gun on his hip.

            Garrus shrugs. “I think it's fascinating that you're the best Spectre around. You do good work. But we hear so many rumors that we're never sure which is the true material. They say you're ten feet tall with glowing teeth.” He rolls his neck and gives the caught-completely-off-guard _torin_ a smile. “You're welcome to join us for dinner. Cyril and I made more than enough for four. Should be ready in five minutes.” And with that, he vanishes back into the kitchen.

            Saren slowly turns to Nihlus. “Who was that?”

            Nihlus laughs warily. “Didn't I tell you I was considering on taking a protege? That was Garrus. Cyril's in the kitchen.” He drops his voice. “I think they're identical Turian twins.”

            “What?” Saren asks flatly. “That's not possible. Female Turians don't have the ability to carry more than one at a time. Their bodies just aren't made for it.”

            “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Nihlus says, waving it off. “In any case, I'm debating between those two. They're both fantastic snipers and have a few other skills as well.” He pauses, hums, and looks thoughtful. _What are you here for anyway?_

Saren looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “I'm here to check on your coding. I told you I'd be upgrading it sometime soon.” Nihlus nods, his mandibles spreading outwards in a massive grin.

            “Go riiiiiight ahead,” he purrs, unable to keep the glee out of his subvocals.

            “What did you do?” Saren asks slowly, eyes narrowed.

            Nihlus grins even wider, because _he_ didn't do anything, Garrus did. “Nothing!” he chirps. “ _I_ didn't touch anything.”

            “The way you said 'I' is very telling,” Saren sighs out, stomps over to the console, and pulls up the code. He begins reading, gets halfway through the first line, and stares. “This isn't the code I left you with, Nihlus. What did you do to it?” With a huff, he pulls up a simulation and stares at the stats. “A 25% increase in shielding and fire-rate without losing a single drop of power from the cannons? Who wrote this, Nihlus?” Saren whirls around, biotics glowing. “Who wrote this, Nihlus? This is better than what I have!”

            With a snicker, Nihlus cracks up laughing when his mentor doesn't even wait for an answer, instead whirling around to devour more code. “You like?” he asks.

            “I want to meet who did this.”

            “Aaaaand?”

            “.....I _don't_ know.”

            “Dinner,” Cyril says flatly as he pokes his head into the room, watching as the two Spectre turn to face him.

            “Thanks, Cyril,” Nihlus returns through his laughter. Saren starts, staring at the _torin_ with semi-wide eyes. He'd thought that was Garrus again. Maybe Nihlus _is_ right about them being twins.

            “And Arterius? Leave Garrus' coding alone. He spent hours working on that and I don't think he'll be very happy if you mess it up.” He vanishes back into the kitchen.

            Saren slowly turns around to face him and it takes Nihlus a few seconds to realize that he's _gleeful_. That's _glee_ on the elder Spectre's face. It's honestly one of the scariest things he's seen in quite a while.

            “So,” Nihlus drawls with a mile-wide smirk, “what'cha think of them?” When his mentor doesn't answer, the younger Spectre continues. “I was thinking that I could take one as a student and you could take the other. You know, that way we get two long range snipers, an espionage specialist, and a hacker/coder.”

            “Get us the nearest mission,” Saren says with an evil twitch of his mandibles. “I want to _test_ them.” Then he vanishes into the kitchen.

            Nihlus whimpers, wonders if this is the right idea, and then follows him in.

**oOo**

            “I have to know this,” Nihlus asks just before they're to leave on a mission, “but are you two twins?”

            Garrus snorts and shares a grin with Cyril. “Nope. We're like eight or nine times removed though, so very distantly related. We have taken advantage of our identical looks before, though.” He gives Nihlus a smile that's so innocent it immediately sets off every single alarm bell in the back of the Spectre's head. The Spectre rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, desperately trying to ignore Saren, who just so happens to be perched in the tree above them in order to watch the two Vakarian while they're on the mission.

            Cyril glances around the small area. “So, uh, what's the plan.”

            “Well... I'm going in. I want you two to snipe as many targets as possible without anyone realizing that there are snipers here.”

            “And Arterius?” Garrus asks dryly.

            Nihlus blinks at him. “What? What about Saren?”

            “What's Arterius going to be doing? Because he's in the tree right above us, perched on the third branch from the top and looking down like a particularly terrifying vulture. My goosebumps have goosebumps.”

            “I noticed him as well,” Cyril admits with a wince, trying to not look up. “I can feel his stare boring holes into my fringe.”

            _“Might as well come down, Saren. They noticed you,”_ Nihlus says into his com with a sigh and steps out of the way. Saren's boots hit the ground with a muffled thud.

            “Impressive,” he comments and then adds, “I will be entering with Nihlus. Now get moving.”

            “Yes, sir,” Cyril says, clicking his helmet into place, grabbing Weaver, and vanishing over a rock

            “Sir,” Garrus says as he shoulders Widow and takes off to find a sniping spot.

**oOo**

            Nihlus feels very much like a voyeur, but he really can't dredge up enough fucks to care. Seeing those two have sex every night leaves him feeling physically satisfied, but very drained mentally. His resolve is slipping.

            He desperately wants to join them. To be shoved in the middle and then fucked senseless. It's the same feeling he gets whenever he sees Saren, the urge to be pinned by gorgeous, terrifyingly strong _torin_ , his body ravished again and again.

            Probably won't ever happen though. Saren pretty much has no interest in him and Garrus and Cyril are taken. Nihlus leans back on his bed, watches through the video-stream on his omni-tool with lust-blown eyes as Cyril fucks Garrus into the mattress, and shoves his fingers deeper into his own body. He doesn't care that he's making noises that a whore would be proud of; whines and gasps and whimpers of need that fill the room. Thank the spirits for soundproofing, otherwise Nihlus would've been fucked years ago and it wouldn't be the fun kind of fucked either.

            A long sigh escapes him, his mandibles spreading as he spends himself across his chest, thick seed splattering across hide and plates. Nihlus pulls his fingers out with a slick sound, purring softly as they rub against oversensitive walls, and glances down at his cum-splattered stomach. He really should clean it up before it cools, before it seeps through the gaps in his plates and hardens into an impossible mess, but he just can't bring himself to move. He's too high up, still riding the bliss of his orgasm.

            Nihlus shuts off his omni-tool, staggers to his feet, and vanishes into the bathroom to clean up, his thoughts still stuck on the three _torins_ who now hold his heart.

            It's such a pity that he'll never get the real thing. 

**oOo**

            Scratch that last sentence.

            It's a spirits-be-damned accident, he _swears_.

            He'd just been looking for the two of them, wanting to discuss the next mission that he was considering taking them on. Saren's still elbow deep in the code Garrus had written and working out what the _torin_ had done; probably so he can replicate it on his own ship. Nihlus thinks it's adorable, but doesn't dare to mention it out loud for fear of his mentor waxing the floors of the ship with his own kidneys.

            With a huff, Nihlus steps down around the corner and freezes, his eyes blowing wide. There, pinned against the wall, is Cyril, Garrus attached to his neck and suckling greedily. The golden-eyed _torin's_ gaze slides over to him and widens slightly. Nihlus takes a step back, desperately trying to keep himself from joining them.

            His subvocals, however, have no such issues and are busily purring loudly. He chokes on them, struggling to shut them off before they can give himself away completely. Garrus pulls back from Cyril's neck and rumbles deep in his chest, low and rough and exactly like Saren does. _Oh, spirits, fuck yes_ , Nihlus accidentally returns and then promptly flushes purple.

            Cyril gives a laugh, his voice low and husky. _Come here,_ he purrs.

            Nihlus doesn't move.

            Garrus rolls his eyes upwards and stalks towards the Spectre in slow, practiced, predatory movements. He purrs low in his throat, rumbling encouragement, before tugging Nihlus' mouth upward enough to claim it. Nihlus whines, eyes hazing over when the first taste of the sniper's _reverie_ hits his system in the familiar nerve-searing rush of pleasure that sends him spiraling higher. Hands turn his head and then Cyril is there, stealing his mouth away from Garrus. The second dose of _reverie_ overloads his body and Nihlus' knees give out, his body collapsing against the two Vakarian _torins_ even as his plates begin to slide open.

            With a laugh, Cyril pulls away and throws him over his shoulder and leads Garrus back into their rooms, locking the door behind them. Nihlus is dropped on the bed, his breath whooshing out of his lungs, and Garrus gives him a predatory smile, mandibles quirking up. “Strip,” he purrs.

            Nihlus strips, practically ripping the clasps of his armor open and nearly garroting himself in the process with his breastplate before he can get it off. Cyril laughs again, shucks his green armor, and straddles his waist. “You ever been doubled?” he asks innocently, eyes gleaming.

            “Doubled?” Nihlus echoes warily. He doesn't recognize the term, which is oddly concerning.

            “Never?” Garrus adds in curiously as he undoes the last of his own armor, done in a dark blue, and drops it in the pile. “That's odd. I'd have thought that a sex deviant like yourself would at least know what it is.”

            Nihlus wonders if he should be insulted, but instead is distracted by Garrus settling behind him and hauling both of them onto his lap. “Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes, unbelievably aroused by the fact that Garrus can lift both him _and_ Cyril.

            Cyril smirks. “Isn't he amazing?” he asks smugly.

            “Hell yes.”

            “So double?” Garrus asks, directing the question at Cyril.

            “Duh,” his lover says. “Nihlus in the middle, naturally.”

            Garrus raises a single brow-plate. “Think he can take it? He's never done it before, much less heard of it.”

            “Phhft,” Cyril says, waving a hand, “he'll be _fine_ ,” and reaches over to the side table where they keep the lubricant. Despite the Turian's natural lubricant, it's always best to have something on hand, especially when doubling. Besides, they want the Spectre to return to their bed, not to scare him off. He clicks it open and spills some into the palm of his hand, shivering just slightly at the feel of the cold gel. By this point, their plates are wide open, heavy cocks flushed and dripping.

            “All right,” Garrus agrees at last, swiping the bottle and spilling some over the fingers on one hand.

            “Should I be concerned?” Nihlus asks as Garrus leans back a little and pulls him with, removing Cyril from the Spectre's lap as he goes. “Because you're really not telling me anyth—ah!” He jerks when Cyril shoves his legs further open, revealing Garrus' fingers already wiggling their way into his hole. His eyes slide closed, a whine escaping him as the icy-eyed sniper works on spreading him open. Garrus' hands are bigger than his, fingers longer and thicker and he can feel them inside of him, brushing against his walls in a way that makes his nerves sing.

            Cyril leans forward and seals their mouths together, calmly trading _reverie_ with him, even as he sneaks his own hand down lower. There's a second of silence, then a yelp as the Spectre feels a third finger breach him. He's being spread open wider than ever before, and his hips jerk with every movement of the clever digits buried deep inside of him. Nihlus whines into the kiss, tongue tangling with Cyril's own and spreads his legs as wide as he can, his subvocals begging for more. _Please, please, more, more, more, please._

            _Well, he wants more_ , Garrus rumbles, thrusting his hand upwards and curling his fingers enough to brush against the tiny nub of nerves hidden away. Nihlus arches with a choked noise, his subvocals buzzing away.

            _He looks good like this, doesn't he. All debauched and open._ Cyril smiles hungrily and presses the fourth finger in. By this point, Nihlus is little more than a mess, far past actual words and relying purely on subvocal communication.

            _Think he's ready_?

            Cyril nods. _I think he is_ , he returns and pulls out his fingers, earning a low whine that speaks of emptiness. The whine gets louder when Garrus removes his own fingers, and hazy green eyes slide open. Garrus huffs slightly.

            _Get ready, Cyril._ Garrus waits long enough for his lover to shift out of the way and then spins Nihlus around, pulling him into his lap. He reaches behind and presses the head of his cock against the carmine-plated _torin's_ stretched, slick hole, and then slides it in with a pop. A low gasp rumbles in the Spectre's throat as he slides all the way to the hilt, the thick ridges rubbing his insides pleasantly.

            He's still embarrassingly loose though. Garrus and Cyril had stretched him _wide_ and he can't help but wonder why. There's the rustle of fabric behind him and then Cyril presses close, the thick head of his own cock pressing against his hole. ' _Oh,'_ Nihlus thinks, eyes blowing wide when the golden-eyed presses himself in slowly. He can feel both of them sliding inside of him, and he sinks down on their cocks until they're both buried to the hilt. With a whine, Nihlus drops his head onto Garrus' shoulder, his breath heavy and quick. He's so full, spread so wide he's barely able to think straight.

            Then Garrus _curls_ inside of him, Cyril following close behind, and the Spectre arches with a howl, his body bowing. His arms come up and back, locking themselves around the golden-eyed _torin's_ neck, even as his legs wrap around Garrus' waist. He clings desperately as they bounce him in between them, thick, ridge cocks grinding against his insides in a way that makes him lose his mind.

            Garrus leans forward, grasps Nihlus' abandoned cock, and pumps roughly, thumb coming up to smear pre-cum across the head. The carmine-plated Turian whines in the back of his throat, and makes a choking noise as he reaches his peak. Seed spills out across Garrus' hand as Nihlus' muscles tighten, becoming a vice around the two lengths buried inside of him. Cyril snarls low in his throat, shoves in as deep as he can, and spills. Garrus groans at the heat surrounding his own cock and peaks as well, burying his face into dark brown hide. His breathing is rough and fast, heavy in the wake of their fun.

            Cyril croons softly and carefully unsheathes himself, lifting Nihlus off of Garrus' cock as he goes. The carmine-plated Spectre is completely out of it, still mostly lost in the peak of his orgasm. Cyril stumbles into the bathroom and soaks one of their towels, bringing it back so he can wipe the seed from Nihlus' stomach. He's entirely not surprised at the sight of Garrus calmly licking both his hand and Nihlus clean. He still throws the towel at his icy-eyed lover though, laughing softly as it nails him in the face.

            Garrus laughs as well and wipes Nihlus clean of whatever he missed. “Come on, Cyril,” he murmurs softly. “Nihlus is out cold. He has the right idea though. Shall we join him?” He tugs the Spectre to the center of the bed and curls up on one side of him, tugging the smaller _torin_ against his chest. Cyril purrs softly and snuggles up on the other side of Nihlus, crooning softly as he yanks the blankets up and dozes off.

**oOo**

            Saren Arterius does not get jealous. He's not particularly interested in material items, nor does he want power. He's quite happy where he is, thank you very much. As such, it's rare for him to feel the emotion. But it's definitely the green hands of envy stabbing his heart as he watches—through the cameras naturally, because he's just _that_ jealous—as the two Vakarian _torin_ ravish his student absolutely senseless.

            Fucked silly is a good look on his student and both Vakarian clearly care for him. They've cleaned him up and they're taking good care of him.

            More than Saren ever could.

            He sighs softly, ignores the burning in his chest, and shuts down the video-stream. Without the light of the screen to light it, the CIC goes dark. Only his cybernetic eyes glow in the gloom, pin-pricks of blue in the black.

            Maybe it's better this way. Everyone Saren loves seems to leave him eventually. It would break him irreparably if Nihlus were to ever leave.

**oOo**

            Nihlus wakes the next morning pleasantly sore. His ass is complaining, but it's a complaint that speaks of fantastic sex. He yawns widely, jaw cracking and mandibles spreading, and opens his eyes, feeling the memories rush back at the sight of Garrus to his left. An arm is draped over his waist and the carmine-plated Turian follows it to see Cyril on his other side. Golden eyes flicker open and the _torin_ smiles at him. “Good morning, Nihlus,” he rumbles lazily. “Sleep well?”

            “Yeah. Better than I have in quite a while.”

            “That's good,” Garrus adds and Nihlus twitches. He hadn't even noticed the other waking up. Cyril stretches lazily, long and lean, and slides out of the bed. He saunters over to a small chest of drawers and yanks a pair of loose sweatpants out of it. There's a special set of holes in the legs for their spurs, and he slides them on with ease before tossing a second pair over to Garrus and then one to Nihlus.

            “Here,” he calls softly. “Get dressed and come out to the kitchen. I'll go make us something to eat. Do you know if Arterius will want anything?”

            Nihlus tilts his head. “Probably not. Saren doesn't eat in the mornings, other than _kava_ that is. And you can call him 'Saren' you know. He won't mind.”

            Garrus and Cyril exchange looks. “If you say so,” Garrus says slowly, stretching languidly. He's already dressed and heading out the door after Cyril. “I'll get you _kava_ , Nihlus.”

            “Thanks,” the Spectre calls and then immediately sets to work pulling on the pants. They're a nice brand and he wriggles into them, tying them shut and laughing a little at the fit. He's smaller than both of the Vakarian _torins_ and Cyril had clearly tried to find the smallest pair of sweatpants they owned for him. It's extremely thoughtful and Nihlus gets a laugh out of the thought of Saren trying to wear these. He'd drown in them.

            Then he gets an image of Saren on his hands and knees between the three of them and has to lean against a wall in an attempt to catch his breath. That would be....glorious.

            He breathes in and heads for the kitchens, already planning ideas on how to get his mentor into their bed.


End file.
